


Veritas Omnia Vincit

by runnerzero



Category: Zombies Run!
Genre: F/M, Season/Series 05 Spoilers, also some mentions of torture, honestly I just wanted to write a fic where sigrid gets decked, this ended up being a bit creepier than I intended
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-12-26
Updated: 2017-12-26
Packaged: 2019-02-20 16:48:45
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,066
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13150842
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/runnerzero/pseuds/runnerzero
Summary: Set after the events of S5M37Janine plays a game of chess with an old enemy and considers what she has left behind.





	Veritas Omnia Vincit

**Author's Note:**

> Secret Santa gift for sweetlittlesoufflegirl! 
> 
> Needless to say, spoilers for the end of S5. I hope you enjoy!

 

The room they bring her to can only really be described as a waiting room: clean white walls, steel chairs, a coffee table, cabinets, even a few fake plants. Janine almost laughs at the absurdity—furnishing an interrogation room with potted plants. Then again, it’s the exact kind of decorating choice that Sigrid would make, and Janine is in her territory now.

The guards don’t say anything, but they push her towards one of the chairs and she sits down. While they cuff her hands behind her back, Janine takes in every detail—hand-cut marble tiles along the door frame, fifteen feet of gray drapes hanging to either side of the Minister’s portrait, the thirty-inch screen on the wall, with the sound muted and a headline that reads: “TRAITOR BOMBS LOCAL MILITARY STATION, KILLS FIVE” followed by “MINISTRY CAPTURES REBEL FACTION LEADER.”

She glances away, focusing instead on the wilting leaves of the fake palm plant next to her, if only to give herself a distraction from the dread. This waiting is all part of the Minister’s game: wearing her down, striking while she’s vulnerable.

The guards have receded to the back wall, but she keeps them in her periphery, taking note of hands settled over the tasers at their belts. Her arms are twisted back too tight to move more than an inch or two, but the chairs aren’t bolted to the floor. She studies her surroundings, measuring the distance, calculating. How long would it take before they went for their tasers? Long enough for her to take out one, but they’re spaced out far enough that she can’t take them both at the same time. And she’s not enough of a fool to forget the cold black eye of the security camera in the top right corner.

And so Janine waits. Listening to the steady breathing of the guard’s behind her, the whir of recycled air. It takes another fourteen minutes and thirty four seconds before the footsteps come from down the hall.

When Sigrid steps through the door, Janine finds herself jerking up in an automatic movement—not quite the standing at attention she would give to a superior officer, but still a gesture of respect. The cuffs tug at her wrists and she sinks back into the chair. There’s no reason to respect Sigrid anymore, of course, but years of military discipline aren’t easily unlearned.

“Thank you for waiting so patiently,” Sigrid says. “I wish we could have gotten right to business, but as you know, there were a few important matters to be dealt with first. How are you feeling, Janine?”

“Wonderful,” she says.

“You know,” Sigrid says, stepping slowly into the room, arms folded behind her back. “They say that sarcasm is the lowest form of wit. I expected better from you.”

Sigrid looks almost exactly like she did when they first met—broad shouldered and regal and sophisticated, her short hair tidy, her evening coat a handsome navy blue, gold stripes on the sleeves and glossy buttons running down the length of it. Her dark eyes are more solemn, though, and there’s a weight settled over shoulders that hadn’t been there before. She walks towards the center of the room, her boots clicking on the floor in a way that grates on Janine’s last nerve. Arms crossed over her chest now. Chin lowered. Studying Janine with hooded eyes.

A line of sweat runs hot down the back of Janine’s neck. Her palms are sticky, and she squeezes them into tight fists, keeping her face schooled into a polished mask. She grips the cuffs behind her until her fingers ache.

“They’re gone,” Janine says, once the silence has grown too heavy to bear. “The others. I have no knowledge of their whereabouts.”

Sigrid smiles. “That’s not why we’re here.”

She motions to the guards and they step up behind her. A click, something twisting at her cuffs, and then the cold metal drops free from her wrists. Sigrid draws up another chair to face her and from one of the cabinets, she pulls out large black box. The guards drag a coffee table between them and then retreat to the back corner.

“You’ve played before, haven’t you, Janine?” She opens the lid, spreads the checkered board across the table between them and picks up the white queen. “White? Do you prefer white?”

Janine reaches out and takes it, feels the weight of it in her hand. It’s a fancy set—ceramic and finely crafted. “What do you want?”

Sigrid raises an eyebrow. “I want to play a game of chess.”

She’s staring at Janine. Five seconds becomes ten. Ten becomes twenty. Sweat gathers on Janine’s palm, slick against the white queen in her hand. After thirty seconds, an eternity has passed. Janine knows what she’s doing: playing a game within a game.

Janine puts her queen on the board and opens with the King’s Gambit. It’s a classic move, not the most original opening she’s ever come up with, but Janine takes the time to gather her thoughts, let them settle.

“Using Mr. Sissay was a clever trick,” Sigrid says after moving her pawns to match Janine’s. “I have to say I didn’t expect it from him. He was always the loyal soldier.”

“Loyal,” Janine says. “Just not to you.”

Sigrid makes a sound, sort of a half-chuckle from somewhere deep in her throat. “You know how I feel about loyalty.”

Janine studies the board for a moment and then moves her knight. “Is Mr. Yao alive?”

“What do you think?”

“Where is he?”

Sigrid kills another pawn, and then smiles. “I’ve left him with Mr. Golightly.”

Janine picks up one of her fallen pawns, squeezes. She focuses on the cool ceramic edges and keeps her face flat. If Sam is with Ian, he’s still alive. That’s what matters. Still alive. “I see.”

“There’s a saying in Latin.” Sigrid takes out another piece and drops it to the side of the board. “Vincit qui patitur. Do you know what it means?”

Janine stirs in her seat. “I do.”

Sigrid slides her bishop onto the board, and then smiles. “He conquers who endures. Or she, in this case, I suppose.”

The breathing of the guards behind her has slowed. They’re losing focus. The filing cabinets to her left are bolted to the ground, and the chairs are too heavy. But her eyes fall to the monitor on the far side of the wall, the cord trailing down along the wall. A lunge across the table, a good punch upside Sigrid’s head and then a wrap of the cord around her neck. Executed in seconds and over in a matter of minutes. Unless the guards get to her in time, and it’s likely they will.

Still, she can’t help but turn that thought over and over in her mind, considering. It might not get her anywhere, but Janine can’t say she hasn’t been itching for a good blow. She thinks of Sam’s face, the way his eyes screw up tight when he’s scared and the sounds he makes when he’s in pain—heat pools in the pit of her stomach. She fights to keep control, keep her focus on the board.

There’s an opening in Sigrid’s defenses. Janine heads straight for it, but Sigrid chuckles and closes the gap with one of her pawns. “You know better than that, my dear. It’s never that easy.”

Janine moves another piece a little more aggressively than she needs to. “None of this has been easy.”

“No, it hasn’t.” Sigrid smiles. “It’s been rather fun, this little game of ours.”

“There is nothing ‘fun’ about mass murder.”

“Come now, Janine. You and I both know this is much bigger than that.”

“This isn’t a game,” Janine says, fighting to keep her voice even. “If I’ve learned anything over the course of this—it’s that this is not a game. These are not pawns. These are human lives.”

“And who taught you that?” Sigrid picks up a knight, dragging it slowly across the board.

She lifts her chin. “The people of Abel.”

“Yes, yes, Janine. Very noble. But who?” She picks up the knight and turns it over in her fingers. “Sam Yao? Dr. Myers?”

“Of course.”

Sigrid knocks a pawn off the board with her knight. “And... Simon?”

Janine tenses up, despite herself. “Simon is dead,” she says, perfectly composed.

“But Peter isn’t.”

She keeps her eyes fixed on the board. A few more moves to close in on the black king. Another pawn stepping forward, her bishop to the right, a knight to the left.

“I’d be very interested to get my hands on this ‘Peter,’ you know. From what I’ve heard, my husband had a hand in his….abilities. I’m sure Veronica would be very pleased with the chance to examine him. To test his limits.”

“I’m sure she would,” Janine says, her voice clipped.

Sigrid glances at the board, looking it over. There’s a glimmer of something in her eyes that Janine can’t quite pinpoint. “One more move from mate,” she says softly. “Why don’t you take it?”

Janine studies the board. Everything is set up perfectly. One move. But she knows very well that this match was over before it began. When the game is fixed, how do you avoid losing?

“No,” she says. “Thank you.”

She picks up the queen, rolls it over in her palm. Feeling the smooth cut stone, the rounded edges. Then she stands up and hurls it at Sigrid’s head. Sigrid jerks back, ducking the queen, but her hand collides with the board. Pieces clatter on the table, roll on the tabletop before falling off the edge. There’s a flicker of surprise in her eyes, and Janine savors it—the rush of control—however momentary.

“That wasn’t very wise of you, Janine,” she says, standing up and brushing herself off.

Janine shrugs and rolls her shoulders. Then she punches Sigrid in the face. Smashing the heel of her hand into her aristocratic nose, rotating her shoulders to maximize the impact, textbook perfect, just like she’s been taught. Something close to retribution swells up in her throat. Victory, even if just for a flash of second, the crash of fist against bone. Vincit qui patitur.

The door flies open and the guards at her back are already grabbing her from behind. She’s taken down quick and hard, yanked back and thrown face-first into the floor. A boot slams into her nose, and for a moment everything goes blurry.

Sigrid is standing, smiling, rubbing at her swollen cheekbone. “You disappoint me, Janine,” she says. That was your last chance to do things the easy way. Don’t say I didn’t warn you.”

“Good,” Janine spits, and she tastes blood on her teeth.

Sigrid looks at the guards, then jerks her head towards the door. “Prep her.”

 

            ****

 

When she finds herself back in that same room hours later, shackled to the same chair, Janine doesn’t feel much like fighting anymore.

Whatever they shocked her with has left her feeling weak, barely able to lift her head, and Janine is suddenly acutely aware of how little she’s had to drink in the past twenty four hours. She’s not bleeding anymore, but she feels the swelling under her left eye, the bruises blooming on her ribs and her stomach. Her head feels strange without the weight of her hair. They weren’t particularly gentle with the razor either. She feels a little trickle of blood drying along the hairs at the back of her neck.

Sigrid is leaning against the coffee table where they last left off, the chess board long cleared away. She has a glass of scotch in her hand, swirling it. She pauses, rolling the liquid in her mouth and staring off at the wall for a few long moments. Then she turns to Janine. “Care for a drink?”

Janine curls her lip. “I don’t drink.”

“Oh come now, Janine. Surely you want to celebrate my victory.” She steps forward, presses the ice cold glass against Janine’s collar bone. “To the Wakened Land.”

Janine keeps her jaw set. Her wrists are going numb against the cuffs.

“I know, I know,” Sigrid says, lifting the glass up to her chin and angling it. “You don’t like to lose control. But it’s just us here, now, Janine.”

When she looks up, there’s something dangerous lurking in Sigrid’s eyes. A promise. Janine realizes then that she’s either going to drink it willingly or Sigrid will have her guards come back in here and force her.

Janine hesitates, then opens her mouth and lets Sigrid press the edge of the glass against her lip. She drinks it—the whole thing—letting it burn all the way down her throat. It’s been a long time since she’s had anything to drink, and despite herself, she coughs a little, grimacing.

“I—” Janine says, trailing off, out of breath and glad that she is, because she doesn’t trust herself after drinking on an empty stomach. Her thinking isn’t crystal clear and it has to be. It always has to be. Janine feels like she’s stumbling through fog. Desperately running through the lines she practiced over and over again in her head while they had her tied up in the back of the jeep the whole way here, but something about Sigrid’s presence makes all of her words feel wrong in her throat. “Why are you doing this?”

Sigrid settles behind her chair and reaches out a hand, ghosting over Janine’s wrist and up to her arm. Janine’s skin prickles, hair standing on edge. It takes all her concentration not to flinch. Finally, Sigrid’s hand comes to rest on Janine’s shoulder. It’s an uncomfortable gesture—a familiar one.

“It’s been too long, my dear. So many years in the making, and now finally everything is laid out before me. I see the line, clear as day, between point A and point B, and nothing can keep me from it. Finally, I can stop fighting and relax, look at what I’ve done. It’s a wonderful feeling, Janine. Forgive me if I enjoy it with company.”

“You won,” Janine says.

Sigrid smiles, as calm and gracious as ever. “Yes, I did.”

“You got what you wanted.”

“I did.”

Janine twists harder against the cuffs. “What now? What do you want from me?”

Sigrid’s smile goes hard around the edges. “Nothing,” she says. She drops another hand on Janine’s shoulder, and her fingers dig in a little too hard to be comfortable. “I wanted you, and now I have you.”

Her voice has taken on a kind of smugness that makes Janine’s stomach twist. Sigrid didn’t bring her up here for information or to provide an edge in her attack—she’s here to give the Minister a chance to gloat. That’s why her head is shaved, her face bloodied. That’s why Sigrid is touching her like this. It’s about humiliation.

Sigrid’s hand slips to the back of Janine’s neck, squeezing, and she bristles at the touch. The only thing she can think to do is let her mind settle on a collection of happier memories: sitting in the rec room with her runners, making faces at baby Sara, the comfort and security of falling asleep in Peter’s arms. She clings to these moments, drawing them out like she could live in each string of seconds.

Janine stops, jolted by a sudden and unexpected longing, almost painful in its intensity. Like a wire through her heart. She blinks, tightening her firsts for a moment, hoping it will pass like the nausea, or the searing headache, but it persists. She thinks of Peter. She thinks of her friends. She hopes they aren’t foolish enough to come for her but some tiny part of her wishes desperately that they would.

The hand moves from her shoulder to the back of her head, sliding through her freshly buzzed hair, and settling there. Janine shivers, surprise kicking in through her system for a blurry moment, everything reorienting and bending. Every part of her wants to reject the touch, reject her, their history, the context of it in this room after all these years. But that part of her feels very far away, and all Janine can do is sit frozen in her chair. Pulled tight as a cord, holding her breath, rigid against the cuffs.

“I told you what would happen if you crossed me, Janine,” she says softly, almost gently. “You should have done what you were told. We could have done great things together.”

Janine closes her eyes. It’s still there, somehow. The longing. Growing in her guts, a weed taking root and blooming in the back of her throat, desperate and intense. She focuses on her hands, twisting them painfully against the cuffs because she thinks of Sigrid saying his name and she feels the ache of an old memory, something half-remembered and shifting in the back of her mind—sunlight through a van window, a man with an unfamiliar face sitting beside her. His head is thrown back, arms crossed as he chats with somebody in the front seat, and then he looks right at her with a blinding grin.

Janine sucks in a breath, remembering the intensity of his gaze. It wasn’t fearful or wavering or curious or anything; it simply  _was_. It was the look of somebody who had accepted his fate, but had not been broken by it—who could not be broken by it, or by anything. She feels something curl in the pit of her stomach and she hopes that her neutral expression holds.  

“There’s a saying in Latin,” she says after a moment. “Veritas omnia vincit.”

Sigrid’s hand tightens on the back of her neck.

“Truth conquers all,” Janine whispers. She feels the depth and severity of Sigrid’s eyes on her, the nerve she’s struck, feels the hand still pressed up against her skull, but she refuses to let herself look away “You haven’t won yet.”

Sigrid smiles, but nothing about it reaches her eyes. The hand leaves the back of her neck and Janine is left reeling for a moment, dizzy and lightheaded until she finds her balance. “Don’t get too comfortable, my dear,” she says, tucking two fingers under Janine’s chin and locking eyes. “After all, you and I have a party to attend.”

 


End file.
